One late night this week, on the tube homeward bound, I was accosted by a couple. One sat purposefully too close to me, physical and personal boundaries abandoned, and the other, opposite, knocking knees. The woman, her head leaning on my shoulder, was stonned I would say and the man somewhat addled, suffering a huge headache, I was stone cold sober. Once they penetrated my wired vigilance I got chatting. Apparently, they had mistaken me for Rosemary Bennett, The Times, Social Affairs Correspondent but they couldn’t quite marry up my constrained chronological age and hers. Admiring my skin, my clothes, my rings, my voice, I felt owned and whilst living…